Tumbling through my phone I notice that Jamie Bloom is still listed amongst my favorites and I realize it’s been more than a year since I’ve seen her.
The realization is somewhat jarring but I choose to smile as I look back on a year that was some kind of trial by fire; August in one year, October the next.
“Do you have a worksheet?” I ask Anna, who tells me that I’m six steps ahead of her, just like Jamie used to do!
II
I jot these things down in my notebook on October 9, 2018, but when I transcribe them to this work, it’s more than a month later and when I search to spell her name correctly I find video message singing amongst sleeping cables and smile for all those she’s likely to help save themselves.
Written by Jason Wright October 9 & November 29, 2018
For Jamie, obviously, but also for my selves and for Anna.
Scott Weiland sings to me in performance once dedicated by Michigan Bryan years before his building caught on fire and Scott Weiland had died.
The Weiland ghost does not understand, continuously encouraging me to watch Lost in Space on his television, which makes me smile the saddest of sad smiles.
One charming copy of a beautiful dead man’s soul does not resurrect all the beauty we have lost.
Written by Jason Wright November 29, 2018
For Bryan Alfaro, who introduced me to Scott Weiland’s “Barbarella” in a most appreciated fashion.
Beneath the great city lies curious Underland, Where the man on the train takes up three seats with unabashed manspread…
He’s not unattractive if I squint with his head between his knees in relaxed, if awkward pose.
Why does my brain always sexualize everything?
Oh. Right. I’m a dude. Sometimes I forget.
In my sex starved brain he’s a nameless bathhouse hookup: “Lose the towel.”
But wait! – The way still life subject just crossed his legs is decidedly GAY and I realize the object of my fantasy is actually cruising me, even as he clears his throat near mid Central Park and his bathhouse counterpart spreads himself open to receive the affections which his flesh and blood inspiration would clearly choose to enact. Only this man is taken and White Rabbit late.
I have the sickness. I have to express. I have the thickness. I have to confess. I have the wetness. I have the shame. I have been sexless. I have been stained. I have been tested. I’ve been observed. I’ve been suggested. I have been heard.
Before it began, something was wrong and we didn’t (couldn’t?) see it.
I wasn’t in the mood. He wasn’t feeling it. This possible malignancy… This possibly unexplored unreal territory, This possibly unexposed notional strife… was like a DANGER sign that was somehow misread as STILL SLIPPERY WHEN WET – an honest, if possibly fatal mistake.
It’s difficult to differentiate where I end and he begins, between what is wrong with us and what is wrong with me… but perhaps the two are not the same; perhaps we two are not as one.
Months ago… (I really should have kept track) in the moments before usual masturbatory apex, unreconciled paste spills upon perplexed fingers absent blissful climax rush; the poorly mixed paint lubricates and froths, gushing forward some 30 guesstimated seconds before still stroking right hand leads me to delayed yet not unpleasant orgasmic sensations.
What the fuck had just happened? I still don’t know for sure…. But when it didn’t happen again I imagined it a fluke… until it wasn’t.
I told him and he later experienced it fourth hand.
28 days x 6 months, minus whatever it is to make it 160 is my guess for how many times I’ve ejaculated since the beginning.
Five aberrant orgasms with no discernable pattern… but I speak to urology office shortly before the sixth occurrence.
That was a few hours ago.
In the shower, as I washed away all evidence of any malady, I imagined him leaving me after his retreat and choosing to keep my completely imagined cancer diagnosis from him so as not to blackmail him, so as not to keep him tethered to me against his will out of shame or pity, or some maligned commingling of the two.
I’ve not been diagnosed with anything, but it’s the dream image that is the first moment in which I feel actual fear in regard to my (or our possibly) undiagnosed condition.
It is in that first moment of fear that I imagine him leaving me, emotionally as well as physically, in which I am finally able to see us as two separate beings; the division of cells, the division of selves, until all are finally set free.
You can’t shed your tears or they keep you for longer so stand against fears; I know you are stronger than maliciousness doctors and malcontent nurses.
Womanly warrior whispers of parental dissonance; the void left vacant by heartless disparaging demoness who indoctrinated decorum, even when disturbingly disoriented; ultimately dying of dissatisfaction.
Illustrious alliteration illustrates illusive illegitimate elucidation, when remembering memorable memories of transformative teenage tomboy temptations which typify, titillate, terrify and tenaciously tickle the terrifically transitory transillumination territory of a tear-transporting-trauma, tremulous with trepidation.
Fecund fundamentalist female, fearing frustration, fetishistically fostered forced feminization, frequently forgetting ferocious fastidiousness in favor of fashion forward formularies of fatalistic forgoing… Fuck that! Fuck this! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!
Part II: Someone to Wraith Over Me
The premature dusting of witch woman’s skeletal desiccation is an abomination to bitch queen shepherdess goddess who bequeathed this nightmare distortion unto the world beneath the tattered folds of her shattered girlhood obsessions.
She, then a shade of innocence untouched by the ravages expressed by others and experienced by each of her antecedents, draws charcoal sketches of haunted childhood homes containing all the monsters one expects with none of the cynicism, skepticism or irony of age.
Interlude: Forgiveness For Unformed Thoughts and Persons
Know this mister, Poet-Sister, Gothic-Mother, Hooker-Lover,
All of this from prism gleaned; loneliness and wisdom weaned… on oldest old wood holly charm which seeks to heal but does her harm.
Part III: The Fate of Foolishness
She is murdered by her own emotions, ripped apart by the loathsome gentlemen pretenders who often inspired her frenzied zeal and seduced her to her supplicant disconnected desolation.
She cries out for seamstresses to sow her back to perfect completion, yet there’s nothing wrong with this patchwork creation.
I yearn to pass her poetry well received by older incarnations in abject exaltation of artistically symbolic expressionism, but the politically mislead withered maiden hand of the despicable crone rejects my assertions despite the burden of proof on display before milky white cataract eyes, long ago blinded by gossamer hatred and ephemeral morality.
She is now but a husk, a hollow hardened cancerous shell, containing pustule ichor of the most diabolical mind altering ignorance which threatens to destroy us all.
Just the NYC MTA saying F U; we won’t make this easy even with American Psycho 80’s cover lilting where Fearful Tears once sang you to fever dream kisses.
Quieted by new crowd infusion; wait for it… There they are! “Fuck you!” 3 times in succession.
But well on the way to coffee date I must silence my own inner voices and dry the fuck off, with memory rain outside like autumn watercolors smeared in shadows behind my eyes.
